Krákumál (Where the Brave Live Forever)
by myfairdarling
Summary: Tony closed his eyes. No matter what his brain was telling him there was no way that it was the truth. If he opened his eyes and was wrong…he couldn't take that, not now of all times.


Warnings: swearing, major character death and the like

Disclaimer: I don't own any of the characters :(

Author's notes at the end of the fic

* * *

Once again, things were about to go to pot, courtesy of one Mr. Anthony Edward Stark. The news stations already had the stories ready to run (hell they had since the first time he'd been kidnapped at, like, age seven) and he just knew that the media circus that would follow this would be particularly horrific this time around. It would be almost as bad as that time the lower half of Cap's suit had been accidentally ripped off during that one memorable battle with some persistent Doombots. Except, this time it would be much less entertaining. Why? Um, hello, perfect well-behaved Steve Rodgers giving the world a very nice view of what they weren't getting to tap was fricken hilarious, especially when he spent the next few weeks with nearly permanent blush painting his face the color of a tomato. Oh, yeah, and then there was the fact that this time he wouldn't be alive to see the frenzy and, well, he was pretty sure reporters would get in trouble for portraying his death like some sort of joke.

Of course, being so close to death was far from a new thing for him. Ever since Afghanistan, it was sort of an occupational hazard. Not to mention that before that he'd always had his tendency to do stupid things that only seemed like bad ideas afterwards. Well, they were bad ideas according to Pepper anyway, which pretty much just meant they were brilliant ideas and she was trying to hold back his true potential. But not even she could break habits that had been around since he was old enough to walk. Not that it really matter now. After all, not even his own stupidity was to blame this time.

Tony was old, and not just 'wow the whiplash from that repulsor blast was hard on my back' old but 'wow it's getting kind of hard to focus one on thing for more than ten minutes' old. Last week it had taken him a whole twenty-four hours to repair just one of the flight stabilizers in his suit, and that was nothing compared to the time earlier this month when he'd spent a good three hours trying to remember his own personal password to the lab only to realize he hadn't needed it in the first place. Long story short, his brilliant mind was fading and he wouldn't be able to rely on it to save his sorry ass when he needed it too. So, basically he was fucked.

It was so easy to imagine; one wrong move in the lab and he was toast, especially with how pathetically slow his reaction time was getting. All it would take was one miscalculation and he'd accidentally decapitate himself or explode or something equally as unpleasant. He didn't know if he could find a way to save himself from something like that, but he highly doubted. Either way, he wasn't exactly in any hurry to find out.

Now, for as much as a survivor as people thought he was, Tony did know when he was beat. (Yeah, he was a stubborn ass and he might not always admit to losing, but he always aware of it.) He was quite conscious that, in this case, he was way in over his head and that, with his body working again him, every day he woke up to could very well be his last.

For the most part, he was fine with that. He'd made peace with the idea that he wasn't going to be around forever years ago and, well, it didn't really scare him anymore. Well, no, that wasn't true, honestly he was scared shitless, but he didn't really tend to dwell on that. Why make life even more stressful? If he was going to bite the dust it was much easier for him to be okay with it. At least, that's what he told himself. Never mind the fact that he had starting to work his way through a checklist (which he insisted was not a bucket list - bucket lists were lame and for people who had nothing better to do with their lives but wallow of the fact they were going to rot in the dirt.)

It wasn't a long list – after all, when you had the kind of money he did there weren't too many doors that were closed to you – but most of what was on it, like the fifth addition to the list, (which entailed stealing Fury's eye-patch because yes, that damn robot bastard was still alive) made him seem suicidal. However, the thing that should have been number one was very pointedly omitted.

By putting it down he was admitting that it was something he wanted, which therefore meant he was admitting that he didn't have it. Not having something wasn't Tony Stark's style in the least bit. Well, at least, in everything but this it wasn't. This had always been a little bit of an exception to the rule. Because Tony did want a loving stable relationship very badly, it was just…he didn't allow himself to commit to the idea.

That didn't mean he wanted to die alone. No, he wanted to leave this world while he was in love with something that wasn't made of gears and wires that actually loved him back. Sure, he had Pepper and Rhodey and most of the team, but while they made up for the family he never really got to have, even they couldn't fill the role of his one and only.

He was a man of countless regrets. Everything from his relationship with his father to what his company had done to the choices he had made as Iron Man weighed heavy over his shoulders. At first he could manage the burden of his mistakes, but eventually it had been too much for him. He didn't have the super strength or invincibility some of his teammates had to give him a hand and it had aged him, badly. He wasn't ugly, because Tony Stark and ugly were antonyms (seriously look it up), but he sure wasn't pretty anymore. He had wrinkles on his wrinkles and, god help him, liver spots and his poor, poor hair had lost all its pigmentation. And, on top of those normal old people problems, he also had to deal with the fact that fighting crime for a few decades screwed with your body hardcore. His joints and muscles were so worn down and his bones were so weakened by old fractures and other injuries that even simple everyday actions were starting to get painful. In the end, Tony was painfully human and, contrary to popular belief, no one knew it better than him. He knew his limitations quite well. It was just that most times he chose to ignore them.

That why how he had known that adding a relationship on top of the company and on top of the whole super hero thing would have been near impossible. Even if he could manage to find a balance he'd learned first hand from Pepper that his lifestyle would still complicate things. She hadn't be able to cope with the danger he consciously put himself in (he would never forget the panic in her voice the first time he'd come home filled with bullet holes, not to mention the times she'd been targeted because of him) and if Pepper goddamn Potts couldn't handle that, he knew better than to think anyone else could. She had taught him that courting civilians would lead to nothing but heartache and, so, for a while, he'd turned to the super community.

In a true Stark fashion, he'd fucked up royally. He'd found someone alright, but they weren't anywhere near what he'd been looking for. They had fought almost constantly but somehow they had worked, at least at first. Or at least they had until the day Tony start pushing the other man away from him. He wasn't used to being the weak one in a relationship, let alone someone worth getting protective over and he hadn't known how to handle it. As it turned out, they were far too similar for their own goods, but also just different enough to make their arguments the stuff legend. So, in the end, like everything else good in Tony's life, they had crumbled apart and, as usual, it had been entirely his fault.

Thanks to his own stupidity and pride, Tony Stark would die alone. Of course, the fact that they fought for two different sides of the same war didn't really help.

It was with this thought weighing heavily in his stomach that Tony lay in bed. It didn't sicken him anymore. At least, not like it had throughout his long life. Instead he was overwhelmed by a kind of mournful acceptance and an odd juxtaposition of understanding. He wasn't going to wake up tomorrow. The enlightenment came with a firm finality that made him feel uneasy – not so much because what was about to happen, but more because he wasn't sure _how_ he had known. Perhaps he had subconsciously done the calculations? Perhaps it was just a natural part of dying? Maybe…

Suddenly, the room seemed to grow cold, cutting off his train of thought. Tony squinted into the darkness, hand falling to the side as he stared, mind racing. At that moment it seemed almost crucial to understand this phenomenon. This, this feeling was important…and familiar.

Tony closed his eyes. He didn't want to see. He didn't want to take in whose weight was making the bed dip as they settled on top of it. No matter what his brain was telling him there was no way that it was the truth. If he opened his eyes and was wrong…he couldn't take that, not now of all times. He prayed the stranger did not talk, fearful that something as trivial as a voice was break the fragile delusion he was sure he had created. However, per usual, the damn bastard couldn't resist taking his blissful ignorance from him.

That voice – the one that his memory had never been able to recreate perfectly no matter how hard he tried – drawled out his last name in a tone that seemed almost impassive. There was no way that this was real. He was probably just a crazy old man, hearing voices. He could keep his eyes close and just pretended that he actually mattered enough for the other man to make an appearance. That's what he should have done and he knew it, but Tony, ever the scientist, needed to know. He took a breath and opened his eyes.

Next to him on the bed, just as he had thought, was an Asgardian. The prankster sat with his legs crossed, elbow resting on his knee, and head resting on his hand, vivid green eyes peering at him with something that he supposed was intended to be mild interest. Tony stared back at that muted gaze, unable to look away from those eyes long enough to truly take in the long dark hair sprawling out over his shoulders, framing his pale, youthful face and creating a glaring contrast or that long, lean body, accent with clothes that were surprisingly casual. No armor, no countless layers, just a simple V-neck and a pair of jeans that should've looked out of place on an alien from another dimension.

Loki was beautiful like this, that much no one could deny, but Tony much preferred his other form. For all that Loki hated it, it was one of the most breathtaking sights Tony had ever seen. It was the form Loki had spent their last night together in, allowing Tony to worship him in his natural state before he'd ripped out the other man's heart. It was the first time Tony had ever had a partner get up and walk out on him without a goodbye. After so many years of kicking girls out of his house, he had finally learned how unpleasant it was to be the one who woke up alone.

Except he wasn't alone right now. Actually he was very much not alone…either that or hallucinating, which he supposed was very possible (and maybe probable) at this point, but still, that meant he probably shouldn't sit there and gape at the other man like an unattractive idiot. So he opened his mouth to speak, only for his mind to fail him again. What was he supposed to say? What did one do when a lover returned after years of silence? He swallowed, brain racing for some semblance of something that didn't give away how damn needy he was before he finally just caved and breathed out, "Why are you here?"

Loki's eyes flared with some powerful emotion that either meant he was about to be blasted with that – he refused to call it magic – advanced weaponry of his or like he was about to be pinned down for the most random, unexpected sex of his life. Only one of the two options seemed likely and, somehow, he didn't think it would be the one he wanted it to be.

So he opened his mouth again to say something snarky, because that was what he did when he got into uncomfortable situations. When he didn't know what to do or how to react his default was to go into cocky asshole mode. Yet his words – the damn traitors – caught in his throat like burrs, refusing to come out no matter how badly he was trying to convince himself he wanted them to.

Across from him, a flash of that knowing smile curled over that damn weasel's lips. However, the god seemed to master himself almost instantly and banished the expression almost as quickly as come in favor of one more suiting a man who didn't give a damn. Then, in a surprisingly childish act, he rolled his eyes and stated simply, "You know why I'm here, Stark."

Stark. Not Tony. Ouch, that was the second time he'd done that. The bastard knew he hated that. What was the point of showing up here if he was just going to annoying him and – his thought process was derailed as those long spidery fingers moved, settling themselves into what was left of his hair and gently tugging his head down into the other man's lap.

Tony's body froze instinctively, gaze flickering up in confusion. Whatever he had expected the other man to do it wasn't this. The other man's name died his lips before it could really even form. He didn't want to spoil this rare moment and he knew that opening his mouth would most likely make him say something stupid enough to do just that. Besides, for all they could talk, when it came to stuff like this they were both men of action instead of men of words. It was like they thought they could both protect their hearts with silence, when really all they were doing was causing themselves more pain.

The Jötunn did not look down at the human in his lap and, honestly, Tony didn't expect him too. After all, they were different creatures in almost every imaginable way, to the point where they were almost contrasts. Except, in the depths of whatever made them who they were (be it souls or spirits or any of that religious crap Tony didn't waste his time with) they were really quite the same.

That was why the misfit prince of Asgard held him like he was something worth holding. That was why those fingers that had crushed so many lives cradled his head and stroked through his hair, trying to soothe the fading life trapped in Tony's body. That was why the great Silvertongue turned his infamous tongue from a weapon into something much sweeter.

The words that slipped from those lips were foreign to him and held a kind of sorrowful beauty that made Tony's chest feel tight. They were like a lullaby, the whispered words of the alien language, and as he listened, the engineer found himself slowly starting to break. Tears welled up in his eyes and, before he could do a thing to stop them, they rolled down his face in a bitter, slow moving flood. Right now, he was more exposed than he had ever been in his life, which probably meant he should say something about the emotions that were surging through him with a kind of certainty that left him reeling. He wasn't sure there were even proper words for this, at least not that he was willing to use. After all, he was pretty sure assertions like this were shitty things to say to someone who you were about to leave behind. So Tony did what he could, and wrote his confession into the lines of his body language. The divinity, seeming to understand, did not react to him and merely continued on speaking, shepherding Tony through this state of vulnerability and into one that felt an awful lot like a kind of dignified surrender.

For all that the man had broken him, for all that he had taken, right now Tony knew that this was about giving. Loki was presenting him with an offer of solace that he rarely extended to anyone, least of all a feeble old man from the world he called Migard. This sort of gift had no substance, no solid mass, but was weighted in it's own way. Coming from Loki, this rare display of sentiment was something Tony had never expected to receive.

To be comforted by a man who called himself a deity, to have his last great wish be granted by this man… Well, it didn't matter how this made him feel. All that mattered was that he wasn't going to have to face the end of his life alone. No, Tony Stark would die in the arms of a god, with the whispered melody of the divine being's native Asgardian tongue ringing in his ears and the knowledge that he had meant something to someone locked away tightly in his heart.

* * *

Loki is speaking Ancient Norse which I have zero knowledge of. The words I imagine him to be saying are from an Old Norse prayer that goes as follows:

Lo, There do I see my Father  
Lo, There do I see my Mother and  
My Brothers and my Sisters  
Lo, There do I see the line of my people back to the begining  
Lo, They do call to me  
They bid me take my place among them in the halls of Valhalla  
Where thine enemies have been vanquished  
Where the brave shall live Forever  
Nor shall we mourn but rejoice for those that have died the glorious death.

The title is also partially from this prayer. Krákumál however is an old Scandinavian tale about a man reflecting on his life as he dies in a snake pit.

There might be more in this verse...flashbacks and the like, because my muse for this is pretty solid, but who knows. Thanks for reading!


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